101 Years Young. . . Leslie Menyasz, My Father-In-Law. . .

Can I get an amen?

Yes, we celebrated Dr. Leslie Menyasz's 101st birthday on Sunday, June 13th, 2010. In honour of his staying power, I am re-posting his story, that I was lucky enough to write and get  published just more than a year ago in our local paper.

“June 13^th, 1909. That day was just a little more than 100 years ago. That was also the day my husband’s father was born in Hungary.

On Saturday June 13^th, 2009 we celebrated Dr. Laszlo Joseph Menyasz’s 100^th birthday. Even writing it looks surreal. One hundred years is a long time to view life and the world around you. My father-in-law Leslie still looks at his world through smiling eyes. I wish I could climb in his head and see things as he sees them, as only a man who has lived for one century can see this world.

1909. The Austria-Hungary-Serbia Pig War had just ended, although it would ultimately be one of the causes of World War I. Instant coffee was invented. Lifesavers, neon lamps and talking motion pictures had not been invented yet. A blouse cost 45 cents.

And here’s my father-in-law, learning to live. Learning to walk, talk and survive. A little baby boy that had no idea what he would learn, see and survive in his amazing life.

Leslie was a very smart young man who studied to become an ear, nose and throat doctor. His choice of profession would not only heal others, but it would eventually prove to be a skill so valuable it would save his own life.

Dr. Menyasz joined the armed forces in Hungary to serve as a doctor during World War II. He was taken prisoner in Yugoslavia by the Russians and was taken to an interment camp. A prisoner of war, his medical skill may be all that saved his life. The Russians found him valuable enough to keep alive, although he suffered the starvation and horrible conditions that came with those camps during WWII.

In 1949 Leslie met and married Kathleen. In 1952, their only child Peter was born. Dr. Menyasz had set up a nice practice in Budapest and family life was happy.

At the end of WWII, the Russians liberated Hungary. It was soon apparent that liberation was really domination under tight communist rule. Led by a group of students in 1956, a spontaneous Hungarian Revolution ensued. Freedom fighters fought hard, but Russian tanks fought harder.

The Menyasz family was no longer safe. There was no choice but to flee Hungary and start life over again.

In 1956, Dr. Laszlo Menyasz took his wife and sedated child with nothing but the clothes on their backs and fled Hungary. The stories Leslie used to tell are amazing. The survival. The fear, the sheer determination to make a better life for his small family.

They landed in Halifax, Nova Scotia, like so many other immigrants that year. The Menyasz family settled in Saskatchewan and began their lives over again. Dr. Menyasz updated his medical education to start a practice in Canada, and built a very successful practice that he later moved (with his family!) to Abbotsford, BC.

Of course,  Peter grew into an amazing young man (I’m totally objective).

And now, here we are, celebrating Leslie’s 100^th birthday. With family, with friends, and with others who fled Hungary during those turbulent times. And still we learn more from them.

It’s impossible to cover everything Leslie has seen through the length of his years. But it does astound me. A century of life, and he’s still doing great. Now, if only I could decipher what his sweet smile really means. . . Happy 100^th birthday, Leslie!”

And happy 101st birthday Leslie!

Flickr Tags: aging,Hungary,family,100 years old,immigrant,centurian

Staying Young Has Nothing To Do With Miracle Creams

I think I’ve found the secret to staying young. And I don’t think it has much to do with lotions, potions, make up or plastic surgery.

Not long ago, I was near a Toys R Us. I was going in just to look, really, and possibly to pick up a gift for my nephew and niece in California. However, about thirty seconds after I walked through the door, I forgot all my dear little what’s-their-names and what child-like delight they would show at whatever gift I picked for them.

My eyes were drawn in all directions at once, which, let me tell you, causes a ridiculous eye strain. The colours were so bright, inviting you to touch, to want. The glitter and shine of the pinks and purples of the ‘girlie’ toys, the masculine blacks, reds and blues of the ‘boy’ toys all made me realize one thing.

It stinks to be a grown up.

I’d like to know who made the rules that say we’re not allowed to play with toys, not allowed to pretend after a certain age. Are you thinking “Nobody told me I couldn’t play with toys anymore…”?

Exactly. Somehow, we let an interest in the opposite sex take away our desire for the very things that made us laugh, stretched our imaginations, allowed incredible fantasies and made us forget about anything that made us sad as children.

Why don’t we do that now? For some reason, we adults change from toys to dates, to bars, to marriage, children, jobs, careers, other people…whatever. Simply said, we grow up.

Who makes the rules on when it’s time to grow up, anyway? Who says you can’t be an adult and still enjoy total reality abandonment like a child does? Like your children do?

Put down your cell phone, PDA, laptop, wallet, glass, newspaper and dinner preparations. Put them all down. Go to your child’s room, the attic or a toy store. Find a toy you used to love when you were a child. Smile at it and remember.

Remember what it was like to pick up your Barbies and immediately fall into their world. Find Ken and make it happen, ladies. Men, go find a Hot Wheels track, or build a fort under the dining room table. Make a tent out of your bed sheets and play doctor with your wife. Grab the pots and pans from the bottom drawers. Raise that wooden spoon and bring back the Racket Band that you used to love when you were in diapers.

Life is meant to be fun, to be enjoyed. Sure, there are responsibilities to be handled on a daily basis. But if we handle them, and then forget them for awhile while we play with the Easy Bake Oven or the Erector Sets….what’s the harm? Find a refrigerator box and climb in. It’s your world. Have fun with it.

Watch children for examples. They’ve got it down to an effortless

science. And, me – I’m working really hard on this and should be an expert in no time.

LiveJournal Tags: humour,life,children,toys,playing,growing old,childish,family,adult,stress busting,laughter,young at heart,jkm asylum,joyce menyasz

How to Avoid Being Eaten by the Holiday Greed Monsters

So the season is upon us. White and crisp and Decembery, Christmas is only a few weeks away.

Suddenly, I hate going to the grocery store, the mall, or any other place that is stacked with consumers who are head deep in gifts for their loved ones, their credit card balances growing while their bank account is shrinking.

This is the most wonderful time of the year? Really?

What is it about the holiday season that sends most of us into a shopping tizzy? Why do we go crazy like this every single year? Stressing over who to buy for, what to buy, how much to spend and will they even like it? Should I get gift receipts with everything?

Gift receipts. It’s a cop-out. Getting a gift receipt with a present is like an admittance of guilt from the gift giver. A gift receipt says I-really-didn’t-know-what-you-wanted-and-I-know-you’ll-hate-this-so-here’s-the-receipt-you’re-going-to-ask-for-anyway-to-go-buy-what-you-really-wanted.

And the people that it’s hard to shop for? How many headaches do we need to ‘prove’ our love or kinship by buying as many gifts as our pocketbooks can possibly handle? And really, how do you know that your gifts are re-gift proof?

Here’s what I think.

The holiday season started in order to celebrate the birth of Christ.

Christ was born in a stable. Every one should get hay for Christmas to remember that.

Three kings came to visit the newborn babe. And sure, they brought gifts fit for a king, but still, Jesus was a newborn. If we’re going to remember the reason for the season, everyone should get diapers, wipes and a couple of baby bottles, wrapped in smelly barn hay or something.

The kings each brought ONE gift. Just one. So Jesus received three presents in total. Four if you count the little drummer boy’s ode to the newborn King.

So let me ask you this. If Jesus only got three presents, and it’s His birthday, what on earth makes any of us think we deserve more than that? In fact, what makes us think we deserve anything at all?

How about if we all trim back this year? Let’s not go into massive debt to please those we love with material shows of affection. Let me ask you this. What present do you like better, the one you expect, or the one that someone brought you because they thought of you, and there’s no special day to mark the gift?

Exactly.

Three presents. Start a trend. Crash the economy. Teach your children, your teenagers. It’s not about the amount, or the value of the gift. Demands are out this Christmas. Tantrums and gift receipts, OUT.

This year, let’s only buy 3 gifts – and when you’re looked at with eyes of suspicion, eyes of disbelief that the present pile isn’t higher, ask yourself and the person looking at you with expectant eyes what they want, what they’re waiting for.

Chances are, they’ll say nothing. I mean really, who will admit they are waiting for more presents? And if they do ask?

Blame it on me. Tell them some silly writer said that nobody should get more than three presents because that’s all Jesus got.

Yeah, let them argue with that.

Merry shopping everyone. Here’s to crashing the economy even more  (but at least it will be our fault this time) and making a new meaning for the holidays and Christmas season.

Peace, joy and unconditional love.

Hangin’ with the Parental Units

When I was first swept away to Canada, there weren’t too many people from the mother land that were very understanding. Not that we knew this until years later, but nobody in California could understand why I’d choose igloo-land over the sunshine coast.

So when my mother came for that first visit, three years ago for the occasion of my 40^th birthday, I was almost anxious with my need for approval. I wanted Mom to love Lanark County as much as I did.

It worked.

When Mom left three years ago, she said she understood why I’d never move back to California. She said she would be my ambassador and let everyone know.

So when Peter and I found out that Mom and Dad were scheduling a visit for October (this year) , I was really excited to introduce Dad to the wilds of Lanark County. Two ambassadors are better than one, right? Actually, I was just really excited to see them, to have them all to myself. I was loving the fact that I didn’t have to share them with my two brothers, one sister or any one of the six grandchildren that live in the vicinity of grandma and grandpa.

I was selfishly giddy, I admit it.

Mom and Dad were celebrating a wedding anniversary – and wanted badly to visit Niagara Falls, as well as experience the fall colours that grace us every year. So, when they landed at night – I’m guessing it was a bit of a let-down for them. The colours, at least, would have to wait until morning.

However, Lanark County knows how to treat its visitors. When we pulled down our road, we slowed to stop just before our driveway. I pointed to the crab apple tree in our front yard, where three does were munching on the trees offerings on the grass below.

While one greedily munched on the small apples, the other two looked up, inevitably startled by our presence. They disappeared after a few seconds, but it was enough. Mom and Dad were suitably impressed.

I couldn’t wait for them to wake up the next morning, so they could see our quiet country street, check out the awesome colours of the maples nearby.

I was like that kid on Christmas morning, waking too early, jumping on my parents’ bed yelling ‘wake-up wake-up!’

Mom, of course was already neck deep in a hot cup of coffee in the living room. Dad was up and dressed, but the shades were still drawn tight against the day. I snapped it up and bright light flooded the bedroom.

“Look dad, look!” I pointed at our young sugar maple in the yard, then dragged him to the back of the house so he could see the back part of our property. “Whaddya think?”

Here it was, what I was waiting for. Dad’s approval. We walked through the sunroom to the tiny back deck.

Dad looked around at our small slice of paradise.

“It’s beautiful, honey. Your nephew would love it here, So peaceful. If it weren’t for the snow and grandbabies at home, your mom and I could see ourselves here.”

Well now. It doesn’t get much better than that, does it?

But seriously. I’d received the approval I thought I’d needed so badly (I don’t of course. I’m ridiculously happy no matter what), I wondered. . . would I really want to live with my parents again?